


Helpless

by TaraLaurel1



Category: E.R.
Genre: 6x13, Canonical Character Death, Death, Drama, Hurt, Hurt John, Loss, Minor Character Death, Stabbing, Tragedy, be still my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He could not think. He could not move. All that flooded his mind was the sudden and the deeply intense pain." Oneshot of Carter's final moments and memories before and after he is stabbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless

The small room was dim and hushed as it ominously countered the bright and life-filled party occurring just outside the door; this one door that would unknowingly separate life from death, grief and anguish from joy. A man was involved in a serious car accident one day. His vehicle tumbled off the road and landed at the bottom of a ditch that ran along the street. Mere feet away from rescue, the man was trapped underneath his automobile, desperately crying out for help. He shouted and pleaded in agony, but still the roaring vehicles that passed by with rolled up windows or music failed to hear his begging. Children are butchered in their beds, only a wall away from their parents' rooms. Women are brutally raped and murdered in shadowed alleyways as others casually pass by, their lives only spared by the timing of their arrival. As humans, we can be so naïve, so arrogant. We imagine that the horrors we view all around could never happen to us. We think we're close, protected. We think we're safe. We're wrong.

John wasn't quite sure if it was the darkness or the seemingly emptiness of the room that caused something to crawl up his spine. It was such an odd sensation for such a routine activity and John swiftly shrugged it off. Glancing down at the tiled floor, his wandering eyes spotted something unique. A lonely heart shaped valentine rested against the floor. It almost seemed sad for such a cheerful thing to be simply cast aside and forgotten. He bent over and examined the card with a soft smile. It was then that it happened. It was then that as John read the words all logic and the entire world passed away. John could not think. He could not move. All that flooded his mind was the sudden and the deeply intense pain. That pain was also the one thing controlling his movements. John had seen the blood of countless different individuals each and every day of his career. He had been spattered and covered with the warm liquid until his mind finally became desensitized to the substance. This time, though, it was different. His own blood coated his quaking fingers. It appeared to almost mindfully drip and glide down from the tips of his fingers to his already soaked palm. It was at this point that is breathing staggered and he fervently fought to take in shallow breaths through panic and agony. His mind screamed out for his body to turn and go towards the door, but his limbs failed to obey. The white hot sensation that pulsed in his back and quickly spread to his entire being crippled his desired motor skills. His knees buckled and then gave way, his feet tangled within themselves. Stumbling, his hand managed to awkwardly grasp a small table, but it failed to support him. In vain, he cried out for help. The walls and objects surrounding him spun and blurred until he suddenly felt himself colliding with the cold, hard ground. The initial impact sent a wave of images violently washing over his mind.

It was certainly not the first time his life had flashed before his eyes and for some strange reason, he almost knew it wouldn't be the last. As he fell from his tree house as a young boy, a cluster of memories had overcome him as his momentarily weightless body tumbled through air. Just as was happening again as he laid on the tiling, specific aromas became so real as if they were right in the room. As a child, falling through the air, it had been the smell of his mother's perfume and fresh dew on morning grass that had come to him. Now, his nostrils filled with a new but similar fragrance. At first, John could not quite place where he knew the scent from but then it came to him in a flash. It was Lucy's. This time though, he wasn't simply remembering it, it was real. John forced his feeble eyelids open and would've fallen over if he hadn't already been on the ground. His eyes widened as the figure came into focus. There, on the opposite side of the bed lay the woman he had taught, had fought, and had gradually come to develop a deep attraction to. She was not how he remembered her though. He imagined it was a tainted memory; her image mixed with the grisliness he saw every day. As he stared longer and harder through it became horrifically clear that the woman he was gazing at was certainly not in his imagination. Their terrified eyes met and John's voice cracked as her name escaped his lips. He watched in horror as he breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered to a close. His mind screamed out to her, but his mouth did nothing. Soon, his eyes too fell closed. Memories of Lucy haunted his dark mind as it slowly sank into nothingness. He imagined her soft hair against his skin as they lay together on the floor under happier and sensual circumstances. He recalled her bright smile and her powerful glare. All of these images mixed with the other memories that clouded his mind.

People tend to say that doctors are the worst patients. They, above all others, posses the notion, whether consciously doing so or not, that the calamities that surround them will only ever do just that, border them. They remain at an arm's length away. Of course they can view their patients' struggles, empathize with them, but still the mentality holds strong. It is only when it is someone that they know, maybe even a fellow doctor, or they themselves end up on that bed that reality finally sinks in. This is exactly what was happening to John Carter as he lay powerlessly in his own pool of blood. He suddenly knew better than he ever had before, exactly what his patients felt. He could no longer merely sympathize with the man turned over in his car, hanging upside down, hoping for someone, anyone to come. He understood completely what each person felt as they sat in those uncomfortable plastic chairs across from the front desk, waiting. John had become so accustomed to being the person that was doing the helping. He instructed other doctors and nurses what to do, he made decisions concerning the care of the patients. Maybe he wasn't in total control of any of the situations, but he was able to do something. Now he was, in fact, completely and absolutely helpless.

 


End file.
